dr. strange gum

I'm not sure what I expected. I'd been told that my new periodontist, the woman I was going to let slice into my gums, was also the on-call emergency dentist for the animals at the Atlanta zoo. A funny blip on her resume, to be sure, but also a tad bewildering at the same time. I'm not sure why, frankly, but it is.

Anyway, she's a spitfire, this one. A tiny, blonde woman in blue scrubs -- no comfortingly authoritative white lab coat here -- attractive in that sort of freshly scrubbed outdoorsy way and an earthiness about her that I associate with those who work among animals. You know, horsy people. Salt of the earth. Straight-forward. Unpretentious. Brook no disagreement type of brutal honesty.

She barely glanced at me as she introduced herself, took a look at my chart, a quick peek at the panoramic x-ray of my jaw, did a double-take and then gasped, "What a gorgeous picture that is! Look at those roots!"

"Thanks," I said, "I'm very photogenic." (And for the record, I actually said that. And that quickly. Right then. No creative license taken these many hours later. See, Corinne, I'm not always a stuttering, blithering idiot.)

That got her attention and she sort of laughed. Sort of, but not quite, before pointing out, "Well, it's a really good camera and a well-trained technician."

"Well. . . yeah." Back to blithering.

"I'm recommending a bite plate," she said next, madly scribbling in my chart, glancing at the films, scribbling, glancing, scribbling. I had yet to open my mouth.

"Wha. . . ? Why?"

"A lot of the people at your company have them."

"But I don't. . . I mean, Dentist Dr. A said I was fine. I don't have any jaw soreness in the morning."

"See here," she asked pointing to the film, "the back molars are flattening a little."

"But those are teeth. I get that a bite plate will help teeth, but they'll stop recessing gums how?"

Ignoring my question, "I used to not believe it myself. But now I do."

"But why?"

And then she talked in unintelligible terms about the flexibility and density of teeth and microscopic fractures and I still don't understand really why I need a bite plate and how it resolves the issue of gum recession.

"Okay, let's take a look. I'm going to do a full examination."

Well, I would certainly hope so! I thought and might actually have said, but the back of my chair had suddenly disappeared from behind me, pulling me back by a clump of hair that was caught under the head rest and it took the dentist, the dental assistant and me more than a moment to sufficiently resolve the issue to everyone's comfort.

And then the fasted exam I've ever undergone ensued during which she poked a sharp pointy thing around the gums of every single tooth and barked numbers to the assistant signifying levels of um. . . attachment? depth? attractiveness? Anyway, numbers.

"You have a LOT of teeth," she declared after the count around.

"Well, my wisdom teeth came in straight, so. . . "

"But they're hard to keep clean. I think this one has some decay. It looks like there's a little decay."

For the record, Dr. A gave me a complete bill of clean tooth health, so a part of me takes umbrage at her findings.

"We could fill it I suppose," she continued without taking a breath, "but it would cost the same to have it pulled. We could pull it right out of there. I mean we could fill it or seal it, but pulling it would be just as easy."

Me, screaming in my head: PULL IT?!?!?

But she just wheeled her chair around to look at my award-winning x-ray and kept talking without pause, "But those roots! And you're so small. And the root is really close to the nerve. It could break your jaw." She wheeled back to loom over me, "We have to tell everybody that for liability purposes. That an extracted tooth could potentially break a jaw. But you're so small, I think on you it actually would. So, I've changed my mind," she said and I could tell she wanted to clap her hands in jubilant decisiveness. "We won't do that. Let's just keep an eye on it for now. Sissy, write that down." And Sissy wrote it down.

After that it was a lot of blah blah blah. . .

". . . commend you on your home care. . . "

". . . really deep pits. . . "

". . . daughter works for Fox News. . . "

". . . remove the tissue from the roof of your mouth. . . "

". . . know anything about developing Web sites?"

". . . insurance company charges per tooth, but it's just as easy for me to do three at once. . . "

AND THEN:

". . . do you want valium or vicodin. . . "

Now? Right now? I want both. To go!

I won't be able to talk for 24 hours and I shouldn't "jump around" for 48. It's supposedly going to cost me more than any one of my international travels -- and that's after dental insurance kicks in.

Actually, though. . . oddly, I feel really good about it. Anyone who literally sticks their hands into the mouths of wild animals has got to know the value of the careful touch.

"If you have any questions, feel free to give me a call. I give all my patients my number so they can reach me at any time. Don't worry if I sound a little out of it, though. My boyfriend lives in Hawaii, so I visit him a lot and most of my patients end up calling me at three in the morning. I'm used to it by now. And really, what does it matter? I'm just hanging out on the boat, fishing."

And then she was out the door.

Dude. Gotta love her.

I'll let you know how it goes. I'm anticipating positive results, because I think she just may be the brand of brilliant that doesn't have to hide behind stereotype for professional legitimacy. She can be wacky because she's good. At least, I hope so. Because where else am I going to find a dentist that will take both me and my dog on as clients?! I do have my priorities, you know.

And P.S., she's right. I do grind my teeth. Or at least clench them. Regularly. All day long. I'd just never noticed before.